The peaks are in front of the Matese, cunning and supine, the sick in their upright, wrapped in white silk robes hoarse, soft and linda, forced into the clothes they usually wear bright only in the harsh winter months. Ruviano and Alvington, Dragons and Bay and Latin America, and Roccaromana Pietramelara finally Riardo are a handful of countries bordering with clemency from the rock. N seem fled quickly from the flood, processed, repaired and gently cling to the rind, suspended or lost as a protuberance of the cliff extreme introvert scorbutic evanescence of the earth.
I am surprised at the images of all time, always equal to themselves and yet so renewed, filtered through a different light. They are the only ones able to give me back that that fever and thirst, that a baby crying intruder who can not keep, they are no longer able to draw from other places: the plaster crumbling corroded by moss, the luminaries decrepit wrought iron a woman who barely holds a shawl on his shoulders lean, which launches in the windy cold to take some strain of shrub in the store, the fresh wood and disorderly front of the houses, the walls in pure virgin tuff that surround each door, the smell of soot ash. Some bars have already closed, and everywhere the smell of cold gray and covered with a pungent smell of rust and shut curtains. They walk with his head down, his chest swollen she can not spit out a sigh, the gasp that escapes and goes, an embarrassment that emerges intimate, touching and flowers in her eyes that hide a serious failure, a loss never deleted, the mourning imprinted on the face and dug dry, going back through the edges of the bones of the face. Respect for the memory etched in silence and slow nell'andatura. We were told that things around here are worth little, or at most just a few coins. And 'only remnant of the day that is gone.
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